Cellar Door
by Robin Mask
Summary: Romano never knew just how beautiful he truly was, but Antonio would teach him just what beauty really meant. One-shot.


**A/N: **Dedicated to Adam. Usage of both country/human names.

**Cellar Door**

Romano glared harshly at his reflection.

It was difficult to look down at that body of water for too long, because no matter how beautiful the water was he felt that his reflection – that person lost in the water's surface that stared back at him – somehow tainted it. He couldn't immortalise its beauty the way his brother could in his paints and pictures, and he couldn't write sonnets to it the way that so many of Britain's writers could, and he couldn't really do _anything_ except to appreciate its serene beauty.

It just hurt him that by even doing _that _– by simply loving the sight of the natural phenomenon – that he was somehow tainting it, corrupting it, taking away the beauty of it that he so loved . . . it really was such a striking lake, its waters so clear that it was like looking through crystal, and so secluded – locked away in the midst of luscious foliage and vibrant vegetation – that it was like a gift from God himself. He wanted to feel that water through his sweeping fingers, or to wait until nightfall when the silver moonlight would reflect from its ripples, but the longer he waited the more he felt drawn to its surface, the more he felt compelled to stare at his reflection, and the more he felt pulled into that downward spiral of emotions, feeling himself being pulled into the dark abyss and seeing the dark abyss staring back at him. It made him shiver deep to his bones. He hated seeing that brown-haired boy staring back at him; he hated knowing that he would never be good enough for Spain . . .

How could Spain ever think that someone like Romano was beautiful? He hadn't inherited any of his grandfather's handsome features, unlike his _fratello_, and he hadn't any of the classical kind of attractive features some of the other nations had . . . he had that silly unruly curl of hair that never stayed still, his eyes were a rather mundane and ordinary shade of hazel, and it wasn't as if he had that natural charisma of his brother or the fashion-sense of France (God damn that name!). He just couldn't understand why Spain liked him! Spain was . . . _handsome_.

Oh, he would never tell the Spanish bastard that, no way would he tell the older man anything that would make his head swell in arrogance, but it was true! He had green eyes that sparkled like emeralds, eyes that seemed to absorb the colours of all that surrounded them; so that on an autumn day that would sparkle with auburn flecks that matched the golden leaves, or by the clear waters of the lake they would take on a subtle blue hue. He was also tall, well-built, but not overly muscular like that dumb potato-eater, and he also wasn't overly sexual like that creepy, paedophilic frog. Spain – _Antonio _– was a handsome man with a rather nice accent, and he also had an appreciation for history and the arts that other nations lacked. Spain . . .

Spain could do better than Romano.

Romano . . . Romano felt like he was a drop of ink, something dirty and filthy, something that when dropped into the pure and untouched water only served to pollute it and take from it what beauty it was given. He was an eyesore. He hadn't the brains, brawn, looks, talents or charm of any of the other nations. He would only drag Spain down into the dirt with him . . . the older nation was still suffering from debt to this day, and Romano had a feeling that that same debt had stemmed from him.

What did he have to offer Spain? Surely the older nation only wanted him for his connection to Grandpa Rome? Everyone wanted his grandfather's inheritance; everyone wanted the name and fame, and even Feliciano . . . the favourite child . . . even he hadn't escaped that curse, even the Holy Roman Empire had wanted to become the next Rome, even if he had eventually fallen in love with Feliciano for simply being Feliciano. Spain was different, though. He used to joke about marrying Feliciano, and he used to constantly try and swap the two siblings so that he wouldn't have to put up with Romano . . . he only wanted Romano, the grandson of Rome. Spain didn't want Lovino, the man who loved him even if he would never be loved in return . . . Romano always turned to Spain for help, and as Lovino – ignoring all his duties and responsibilities as a nation, simply allowing himself to just be a man – he had always admired Antonio, but he just wasn't good enough for the older nation . . . and why would the older nation want someone like Romano anyway?

"Ah, you're too gloomy, _mi amore_!"

Romano let out a rather shrill and panicked scream as he felt a pair of hands clamp down hard upon his shoulder, the sudden and unexpected voice echoing loud in his ears as he was brought out of his self-absorbed stupor. It was such a loud and uproarious yell that it seemed to automatically bring with it two long arms, both of which fastened tightly around his waist and hugged him tightly.

"Bastard!" Romano yelled, turning around to push Spain off from him. "You could have given me a freaking heart attack! What are you trying to do, kill me? What kind of _idiota_ jumps out on people like that?"

He merely glared at Spain as he grasped his chest and took heaving, deep breaths. The heavy beating of his heart echoed loudly in his ears, each pulsing sound almost deafening as the cold waves of adrenaline crashed through him, and as he eventually managed to calm himself down his heartbeat slowed to a mere, weak pulsing. He would gladly admit to a certain degree of cowardice, but he hated when Spain surprised him like that! He thought for a second it was France or Turkey, he hadn't thought that it would be that idiotic tomato-eater!

Spain seemed to find it hysterical, however, laughing in his usual manner as he closed those green eyes of his and scratched his head as if he was somehow expressing embarrassment. When he opened his eyes again he stared at Romano in that typical way of his that always made Romano blush and stutter . . . Romano never knew what that look meant, sometimes it just felt like the older man was playing with him and manipulating his emotions, it always put him on edge. How could he trust someone who couldn't trust him, who was just using him? France had told him once to be nicer, because Spain thought that Romano hated him, but Spain was always so happy and smiling and cheerful . . . did he really think such a thing? He didn't want Spain to think that he hated him, because he liked Spain, even if Spain didn't like him, but he acted like he did, and . . . why was it all so confusing?

"I'm sorry, Romano," Spain said softly, "but you are so cute deep in thought!"

"So what? That doesn't mean you have the right to molest me like that! I know what thoughts go on in that head of yours, Pervert!"

"It's not like that, _mi amigo_! Ah, are you blushing again? You are so cute when you blush, Romano! You're my little tomato! _Mi buen tomate_!" Spain took the opportunity to poke the younger man in the cheek, almost as if he was still a child. "Ah, and you're still soft as a tomato, too! Oh, _mi amore, _do you know what I have heard today?"

"Idiot. Why would I care what you heard?"

Romano folded his arms across his chest and tried his best not to look interested in what the older man was saying. It had been a rough time recently with both their sinking economies, and of course his _fratello _was still awfully close with that potato-eater, and Britain was busy fighting against the rest of Europe, and then there was America busy with whatever Americans did . . . it had been a busy few months and of course he was stressed . . . sometimes he liked to go drinking with Spain to ease the stress, but seeing as today Spain was the one causing his stress. He really was confused! What was he to do? He couldn't ignore Spain, could he?

"Tch, fine, tell me, you'll only tell me whether I want to hear it or not, anyway."

"Well, I was studying my English," Spain said jovially, prodding again at Romano's cheeks. "I wanted to make a prank call on America, but I couldn't think of any good puns. It's such a difficult language!" The green-eyed man laughed loudly and spun around in a way that reminded the younger man of Feliciano. "Spanish is so much better, don't you think, _si_?"

"You know this is why America hates you so much, _idiota_! Stop making stupid pranks! Anyway, use your English to better purposes! Go prank that German bastard if you have to prank anyone . . ."

"Ah, hear me out, hear me out! You'll never guess what I learned whilst I was looking in my books? I learned the most beautiful phrase in the whole of English! It sounds so pretty, _mi amore._ They say it's famous! It's so beautiful that everyone knows the phrase, and everyone thinks it beautiful too! Do you want to hear it, Lovino? Do you?"

The eldest Italian brother sighed deeply and furrowed his eyebrows in frustration. That stupid idiot, he would only tell Romano whether Romano wanted to hear it or not; he always asked for advice and opinions and permission, but he would only go and do what he wanted in the end, ignoring what anyone else said or wanted. Tch, they said that Feliciano and Alfred were bad at reading the atmosphere, but Antonio was the worst! He could talk for hours, fake excitement at his friends' stupid interests, but he never _really _understood, the only times he ever understood were when it involved his _own _interests . . . and for some reason today he was interested in English.

Lovino turned and looked sadly at the reflection the two of them made in the water's surface. He could see the beauty of the man beside him . . . he had such a childlike demeanour, such an innocent face, and whenever he spoke it was always with such excitement and energy that one could hardly believe he ever spent a day sad or upset, but Romano had _seen _him angry and depressed, he knew that such emotions could exist beneath that laughing, naïve façade. Romano had seen sides to Spain that no one else had, not even Prussia or France. He knew how Spain feigned interest in 'boring' topics, how he would almost salivate and rant and scream when he came into contact with things he found interesting. He knew how Spain would fight passionately and stoically for the things he loved, how he would naively and innocently ignore all dangers and problems when he simply felt like basking in the company of the people he adored. He knew Spain so well, and he could see all those bubbling contradictions and fascinating aspects of such a complex personality in the water's surface. He could see the passion in those green eyes, the unadulterated love in that tanned complexion, and the sheer overwhelming desire lurking beneath that chest covered with the draw-string shirt. He could see Spain. He could see Spain who looked so beautiful . . .

Spain was casting a shadow on him. He was literally standing in Spain's shadow, and he looked so dark and bedraggled, nowhere near as handsome and beautiful as _Fratello _or as regal and aristocratic as Britain or as suave and sophisticated as France. He looked so inferior and weak compared to Spain; he was the one spoiling the image, the one staining that reflection, marring it from perfection . . . without him Spain would be so much happier, and no one would judge him for being with someone as miserable and pathetic as Romano. Even Grandpa Rome hadn't wanted Romano; even Mr Austria hadn't wanted Romano . . . no one wanted Romano . . . so why would Spain?

"_Si_," Romano murmured, his voice becoming a mumble, "What is it?"

"It's you! _Lovino _is the most beautiful word in English!"

"What? 'Lovino' isn't even English, you bastard! Go die! You think I'm an idiot?"

Spain laughed and merely leant back slightly to avoid being struck or hit as Romano leant forward as far as he could, leaning right into the older man's personal space. He was being mocked! He knew he was being mocked! No one could ever think that his name would be beautiful; it was just a name for a start, but more than that . . . it represented who he was. Rome had once been strong, but now it was a mere city in a weak country, _he _was merely a weak man without much to give . . .

"I'm sorry, Lovi!" Spain said, placing a warm hand on his friend's shoulder. "If I tell you the truth the person I read said that the most beautiful phrase was 'cellar door', pretty, isn't it! It reminds me so much of my Lovino! They're both one and the same, Lovi! _Lovino_! _Cellar door_! Ah, it's so beautiful! I can say it over and over and over! _Cellar door_ . . . _Lovino_ . . ."

"You're bloody insane! _Spero che tu muoia_!"

That laughter never seemed to cease. It went on and on until Romano felt like he might cry or scream, because as beautiful as it sounded – pearls of laughter so sweet that it was as refreshing and sanctifying as the ringing of church bells – there was a dark and mocking undertone. It was a sound that was not meant for Romano. It was there, he could hear it and appreciate it, but it was like listening to a joke without a punchline, or – worse – where _he_was the joke. He hated being mocked, being made to feel stupid and ugly, because the more Antonio _insisted_that he was beautiful the more ugly he felt.

Didn't Antonio have eyes? Didn't he see the flaws that Lovino had or how hideous that he was? Lovino could be hurt so easily by insults, but that someone could _lie_so blatantly to his face was also an insult. It was as if Antonio didn't even respect Romano enough to be truthful, as if he couldn't care less about the younger man, and that didn't surprise Romano . . . he was weak, a drain on resources, and hardly very charming. He didn't blame Spain for disliking him, but he wished so much that the older nation would stop being so fake, that he would stop lying so cruelly to his face, because if he was at least honest then at least Romano could respect him more . . . every time Antonio told him that he was beautiful – no matter how 'kind' he thought he was being – it only served to remind Romano of how ugly he was. It was an ironic term, one that just drilled painfully into him how he would never be good enough for his old boss, how they could never be one, never be together . . . he just wanted to be loved, but how could he when the person he loved most of all still mocked him by throwing his own lack of beauty back in his face? He had _tried_to be worth something! He had tried to learn how to clean, tried to learn how to cook, tried to be a good and faithful servant . . . but he had failed. Antonio was still a good friend to him, often taking him out or simply hanging out, but it was never enough . . . _Romano_wasn't enough.

"Oh, don't be mean, my little Lovi!"

Antonio smiled and then abruptly pulled his old charge into a large hug. He only laughed some more as the younger brunet screamed loudly and instinctively fought to break away, but Spain's grip was strong and he held Romano around his upper arms and around his waist, making sure that the younger man could not escape his grip. If Romano wanted to get away enough then he would do so, but if Antonio were right – if the younger man was secretly seeking affection – then he would eventually 'give up' and 'concede' that Spain was too strong for him, allowing himself to melt into a warm and pleasant embrace . . .

"You know, Lovino," Spain said, a little too cheerfully for the Italian's liking, "people always think that cellar doors are just practical things, no one thinks they are beautiful, but they are! There's beauty in every thing on Earth!"

"A door can't be beautiful."

"Ah, but it can! They have so many interesting patterns in the wood, it's like looking at a work of art, and there have so many variations and different styles, and in Britain a cellar door looks so different to the ones in America! Ah, so unique! It's like you, my Lovino! You think you're plain and no different to anyone else, but you don't see all those little things that make you special! Ah, and not to mention the differences in colouring and types of wood . . . like you, every one is unique and special!"

Romano let his head sag in defeat. His brown hair fell somewhat in front of his hazel eyes and hid them from view, and as he looked downwards he could see his reflection merged with Antonio's in the soft, cool surface of the lake. Antonio rested his chin on top of Lovino's head and began to murmur quietly about how sweet his little Lovi's hair was scented, and how silky smooth it was against his skin. . . Lovino merely ignored the older man, but if he dared to start poking his cheeks or pulled his curl then he would definitely be punching the idiot in his stomach! He was used to Spain coming out with some very strange comments, but frankly he wasn't sure if he should be insulted or honoured. Why couldn't Spain just compliment people in a normal way? If Antonio did mean what he said as an insult then at least it was a creative insult, but . . . then again . . . it wasn't exactly an insult when a person wasn't even _sure_ if they were being insulted or not. Spain really was an absolute idiot.

"You're comparing me to a _door_?"

Spain laughed again and started to swing a little, rocking Romano in his arms.

"_Si_!"

"Seriously? A door?"

"_Si_! _Cellar door_! I want to say it over and over and over, it's such a pretty phrase! It's like your name! I just want to scream 'Lovino' so loudly that even your Grandpa Rome knows how much I love you! I'll say it so beautifully it'll sound like 'cellar door' and even the Ancients will know how beautiful the name 'Lovino' is! Aw, don't be sad, Lovino! I just want you to know how beautiful you are! My beautiful Lovino! I just want to hold you forever and ever . . . I just want to hold you until you realise how beautiful you are! Can I hold you? Can I?"

Romano felt a dark blush stain his cheeks against his will as he gazed down into the lake. Spain really was useless at sensing the mood . . . he made his fratello and America look like the most sensitive and understanding nations in comparison. It was hard to know if he was being mocked or if his old boss actually was just blind to his flaws, because there were moment like these – locked in the other's arms – where he felt like he really was the most loved person in the world. Their two bodies seemed almost entwined as one, and Lovino had to admit that they looked rather beautiful together, almost as if they belonged to one another. He felt as if . . . he _belonged_. It wasn't a feeling he wanted to get used to, but just so long as it was there he wanted to appreciate it, he wanted to feel that love. How was it that Antonio made him feel love and forget his doubts, even if for just one second in time? Why was it that he loved Antonio? He . . . he _loved _Antonio. Damn that bastard . . . he loved him.

"Bastard," Romano snapped. "Do what you want."

"I will, and that's why I'll never let you go!"

"You'll have to let me go at some time, _idiota_."

"Nope! I'll never let you go! Never! Ah, what a horrible word, 'never', but to never let you go would be so perfect! I love you, Lovino! You make 'never' into such a wonderful word!"

Lovino kept his head low, trying to hide the beginnings of a smile. If Antonio ever saw just how happy Lovino felt around him then he would never hear the end of it, and so he made sure not to let any of his emotions seep through. The last thing he needed was for Antonio to think that Lovino was as foolishly and hopelessly naïve and dunderheaded as he was, and besides . . . if he let his emotions show then it was like he was giving Antonio his heart, and that was simply to precious to entrust to anyone, even if he really wanted to trust Antonio, even if he wanted to love him more than anything. So he hid his smile, simply allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of arms around him, simply allowing himself to love Antonio in his own silent way . . .

"_Idiota_," Romano said softly, smiling warmly to himself.

"_Si_, but I'm _your_ idiot, Lovino!"

"_Si_," Romano mumbled, blushing, "_my _idiot . . ."


End file.
